Boasting of Humility: Part Three

Page three of Paul, Big and Small is below. As you read today's page, you'll notice that Paul does everything he can to not be noticed. Everyday, his goal is to make it through school without anyone ever knowing he was there. He thinks the only way for someone like him to survive is by staying invisible.

I deeply sympathize with Paul. If I had my way, I would just sit down in my little hole (my office) writing and interact as little as possible with other people.

My dream office! Actually, it's the Phraya Nakhon Cave in Thailand.

That would be dreamy...but it doesn't work and it isn't right.

Here's why it doesn't work: At the League of Utah Writers Conference, I went to a panel discussion in which one of the publishers on the panel said, "Once we find a manuscript that we really like, we research the author. If the author doesn't have any kind of presence on the web via social media or a website or something, we won't publish their book." I raised my hand and said, "Just to be clear, you're saying that even if it's a really good manuscript, if that author isn't doing their best to be all over the internet, you won't pick them up?" He answered, "That's correct."

I felt myself deflate. I have a Facebook account with (wait, hold on a minute while I add them all up...there we go) at least ten friends. I have this blog in which, on a good day, around three people in the whole wide world accidentally click on it (thanks, you three!). And I've never used Twitter in my life. Crap. I have to admit, I was really banking on the idea that if the writing was good enough, the rest would take care of itself. Not so.

At first I was a little mad, but when I tried to see it from the publisher's perspective, and I realized it was just good business. They need more than just a book. They want an author that's going to do their very best to market their book and them self.  They need personality and charisma. They need authors who will stand out in a very big crowd. They need to make money. Come to think of it, I need to make money, too.

More importantly, here's why it isn't morally right to try and stay invisible: As writers and artists, we have something beautiful and uplifting to offer to the world. I believe we have a moral obligation to share our work...even if that means I have to find a six-year-old to explain Instagram to me. In a talk given to Brigham Young University, Elder David A. Bednar of the L.D.S. church said, "Social media channels are global tools that can personally and positively impact large numbers of individuals and families. And I believe the time has come for us as disciples of Christ to use these inspired tools appropriately and more effectively..." I realize that he was referring specifically to gospel messages, but why wouldn't this same idea apply to any of our uplifting or positive works even if they aren't overtly spiritual in nature?

Elder David A. Bednar went on to say, "Beginning this day, I exhort you to sweep the earth with messages filled with righteousness and truth—messages that are authentic, edifying, and praiseworthy—and literally to sweep the earth as with a flood." I have faith that my little trickle-of-a-message will become part of a stream that joins a river that becomes a part of this beautiful flood. And maybe, like my fictional character, Paul Samson, I can learn that sometimes you need to stand out...even if that means I have to figure out how to use Twitter.

Here's page three:

I scrambled over to the wall next to the bathroom door and pasted myself there until the crowd thinned and it was safe to continue. When I finally got to my next class, I was tardy and the only seat left was on the front row. I know it shouldn’t be that big of a deal, but I kind of freak out when I have to sit on the front row. I’m the kind of guy that likes the back row. I’m not a troublemaker or anything. It’s just that I like to stay kind of invisible. In the back, I’m much less likely to be noticed by the teacher or other students. I don’t talk in class either unless absolutely necessary, all my clothes are neutral in both color and style, and my hair is ordinary and unremarkable. I’ve mastered the art of high school camouflage. I’m like the nerd equivalent of those ghillie suit wearing snipers in the army: You don’t even know I’m there until you step on me. Besides, when you’re in the back, you don’t have to worry about some jerk spitting sunflower seeds in the hood of your jacket. 

Anyway, I was tardy and to get to my seat on the front row I had to step over these long, smooth, black legs. Very long, smooth, black legs. I looked up and there was Lily looking at me. She said, “Hey, twerp.” I noticed that, even sitting in a desk, she was still taller than me. 

“Hey,” I said. It came out as kind of a squawk (as I said I don’t talk very much, so when I do, it sometimes comes out a little like I’m choking) and I felt my face heat up again. Lily looked me up and down and gave me an amused smile. I would like to say that she was checking me out in a good way, like she thought I was hot or something, but it wasn’t like that. I’ve grown used to people looking me up and down like she did. Usually it’s when I tell them my age and they’re like, “You’re 15?” and then they look me up and down as if trying to decide if a 15 year old guy would really fit into a body this small. I sat down next to Lily, feeling the eyes of 35 other students giving me the same up and down look. 

I heard someone say, “Who let the 4th grader in?” and then another person say, “Maybe he’s really smart and he skipped a bunch of grades.” The first person was just being a jerk, but the second seemed to be genuinely wondering if I was some kind of ten-year-old prodigy. I wasn’t sure which offended me more. 

The teacher was in the middle of calling roll. “Josh Richmond,” he called out and tilted his head down so that he could scan the class over the top of his glasses. “Here,” a pudgy kid to my left said. The teacher marked his roll book and then said, “Paul Samson.”
“Here,” I said and of course it came out sounding like a choking mouse, so I had to clear my throat and say it again.  

Some jerk in the back of the class said, “Oh, how cute, he’s finally going through puberty. Maybe he’ll even hit a growth spurt.” Everyone laughed. If that were only true I couldn’t have been happier, but the fact is, I’m pretty much through puberty. Body hair: check, voice change: check, hormones off the charts so that I think of virtually nothing but girls 24-7: check, growth spurt: unfortunately, check. As much as I hate to say it, I’m probably done growing. My dad is only 5’2” and my mom was 4’ 9” and I take more after my mom. 

The teacher, Mr. Teller (his name I now noticed was written on the dry erase board in feminine, curly handwriting), said, “Knock it off Castle.” He made another mark in his roll book and then said, “Lily Small.” I let out a snort thinking that the whole class was going to erupt in laughter again. I mean, they must think it’s funny for a girl well over six feet tall to be named “Small.” Anybody could appreciate the irony in that. She was a walking cliché like “Little John” or some giant biker everyone calls “Tiny.” It was funny. But do you think anyone laughed? No. Not a single one. 

Mr. Teller looked over his glasses at me and scowled and the rest of the class stayed dead silent. I didn’t dare look at Lily, but I could feel her looking at me. I mean, there were actual red rays of heat coming from her direction. I spent the rest of the class looking at nothing but the scratched in graffiti on the top of my desk.

I'll post page four tomorrow.